


won't you be my honey?

by Macremae



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Autism, Fluff, Humor, Pre-Canon, Pre-Movie: Pacific Rim (2013), valentines day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-28 19:51:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17793683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macremae/pseuds/Macremae
Summary: Hermann does not like Valentines Day, but a secret admirer seems determined to change his mind.





	won't you be my honey?

**Author's Note:**

> written for my friend cecil and based off their AMAZING fanart they showed me, also because i'm a lonely little gremlin and there's still 1 hour left in valentines day.

Valentines Day was, as a rule, not made for people like Hermann.

This, he has found out, is a logical and standard rule that permeates every action taken upon this day every year. Valentines Day was made for people in relationships. Hermann never has, and never will be, in a relationship. Logic, facts, and the clean smoothness of a complete lack of fallacy. Beautiful.

(This is all a very roundabout way of saying that Hermann absolutely _hates_ Valentines Day.)

It’s not the typical hatred of most people, whinging about how they just didn’t get lucky this year, and maybe next time they’ll have someone to share it with. Hermann hates Valentines Day because all day long, from the moment he exits his room to the moment he reenters it at night, there are constant reminders and displays of something he will never, ever have. Hermann is disabled (physically and mentally), a set of circumstances which have shaped him into the person he is today. He’s not ashamed of his arthritis or autism, far from it. In fact, he suspects that whatever higher power that exists only put them there to stop him from being _too_ powerful. However, when people see someone with a cane, they make assumptions. When they speak to someone who cannot read their face, or look them in the eye, or string two emotions together without flapping their hands, they make even more assumptions. And when they meet someone with both? Hermann has to laugh.

This isn’t to say Hermann isn’t lonely. Terribly, in fact. He sleeps with a weighted, heated blanket, surrounded by pillows for God’s sake. Whenever someone so much as brushes his arm in greeting, his entire nervous system goes haywire. He listens to _Puberty 2_ at least twice a week. He is textbook touch-staved.

And yes, alright, perhaps he sometimes allows himself the luxury of fantasizing it. What it would be like for someone to compliment him, touch him, _want_ him, despite everything that he is and does. For them kiss him (Hermann has been kissed exactly once), make love to him (Hermann has never had sex), bloody think about him from time to time. Value his company. Love him. 

But that always ends in tears.

No, there is no outcome Hermann can even imagine where someone would so much as give him a chance, much less return his affections. People like him do not get fairy tale endings. They do not get to be wooed, or romanced, or flirted with, or anything of the sort. They contribute what they can to the greater good, possibly earn a Nobel Prize or two for their troubles, and die quietly surrounded by machines. That is the way things are. End data point.

_Newton Geiszler_ , on the other hand...

Newton Geiszler is a whirlwind of emotion. Newton Geiszler actually goes to the Shatterdome holiday parties and makes acquaintances (perhaps even friends-- Hermann does not pretend to know everything about the man). Newton Geiszler is a Person Who Enjoys Sex.

He is also the (foolish, stupid, ill-advised, Gottlieb what the bloody hell are you _thinking_ ) love of Hermann’s life.

Hermann loves him, has loved him, ever since that first letter when he called his theory on Breach physics “the best goddamn thing since deep house”. He loves Newton’s smile, his freckles, his passion and love for everything he cares about. He loves his tattoos (someone no one can _ever_ know). He loves him not despite, but because of his outbursts and mania and reckless attitude. Hermann really does love everthing.

Sometimes, when the man himself is not looking, Hermann has little daydreams about him. Newton holding his hand (how gauche). Newton sleeping next to him. Newton charming him, seducing him, trailing his fingers up Hermann’s chest as he backs him against his chalkboards and--

Well. Best not to think too hard about that.

The point is. Well, the point is that Hermann hates Valentines Day. And that will never, ever change.

“So you’re telling me no one got you _anything_?”

Hermann looks up from his computer and stares off into space as if a camera might zoom and and catch his utterly exhausted expression. He removes his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose with a sigh. “For the last time, Newton,” he says, “I did not recieve any valentines today, and I don’t particularly care. In fact, I would have been utterly shocked if I had. Just because you are so desperate for the affection and validation of others that you recruit this day like the bloody army, does not mean that I feel the same. I didn’t even remember it was Valentines Day until you told me.”

Newton doesn’t even have the good graces to look hurt at Hermann’s insult. Instead he just looks rather... sad. Odd. “You just up and forgot about it?”

“Yes,” insists Hermann. “Does it matter?”

“No, it’s just...” Newton looks away and scuffs at the lab floor with the toe of his boot. “Are you sure you’re okay with that?”

This is starting to poke at some nerves Hermann really doesn’t want to address today. He gives Newton a withering glare. “Why on Earth would I not be?”

Finally, Newton appears to get the hint. “Okay dude, sorry. Didn’t mean to pry.” He takes a few steps back towards his side of the room, then stops. Taps his foot. Pauses for a moment. Then: “Hey, I hate to ask, but would you mind grabbing breakfast? I need to pull some samples out of the freezer.”

A bit of a strange request (usually Newton is the one who makes trips to the dining hall for them), but Hermann doesn’t see the harm. It’s not like he’ll be putting much else strain on his leg today. “Fine,” he says, and grabs his cane.

It’s odd, but he can almost feel Newton staring as he closes the doors behind him.

When Hermann returns from the mess hall, he places one tray on Newton’s desk (french toast, an apple, three slices of bacon, and a bowl of some horribly sugary cereal that Hermann can’t be bothered to remember the name of) and goes to sit at his own and eat his breakfast. When he sees what is there, he nearly drops the tray.

“What,” Hermann almost shrieks, “the bloody hell is _that_?”

There is a bouquet on his desk. A bouquet of roses. Red roses. And a little heart shaped card. His hands nearly shaking, Hermann turns it over to read the message on the back: “To Dr. Gottlieb, happy Valentines Day! Love, your secret admirer”.

“Newton, who brought this in?”

From his side of the room, Newton shrugs. “I dunno. I was in the freezer, walked out, and they were just there.” He nods at the bouquet. “Looks like you got something after all. Got a hot boyfriend you haven’t told me about?”

Hermann goes scarlet. “No,” he says immediately. “Nothing of the sort. I have no idea who could have possibly sent this.” For a moment, the possibly occurs to him that someone might actually be interested in asking him out. A real secret admirer. He smiles softly.

Then, the cold truth of reality sets in.

Hermann scowls at the flowers. “Well, whoever it was, I hope they thought it was very funny.”

Newton makes a sound like a wet cat. “You think it was a _joke_?”

“Of course,” he says, “what else could it be?”

With that, he picks up the bouquet and drops it into the wastebin next to his desk. Newton rolls his eyes. “You’re a sad man, Hermann.”

Hermann turns his glare on Newton. “Oh, shove off.”

Well, he certainly knows who it _can’t_ be.

Hermann ends up losing himself in his equations for the better part of the day, keeping to the top of his ladder and pointedly not looking about the flowers in the wastebin. Or Newton, who has been surprisingly quiet considering that it’s a holiday. On Halloween, he dresses up in costume and tries, in vain, to spook Hermann. On Easter, he spends the day setting up egg hunts for Jake and Mako (who are rapidly getting too old for that sort of thing). During the entire month of December, he blasts inane Christmas songs, even though the man himself is only half Christian. So why is this particular holiday any different?

Sometime after fourteen hundred hours, Hermann is knocked from his reverie by a tap on the ladder. Newton stands below, holding what appears to be a square-shaped package. “Tendo brought this by,” he says. “Said somebody told him to give it to you.”

Fighting his growing curiosity, Hermann climbs down the ladder and takes the package from Newton. It’s medium sized and flat, with red wrapping paper and a frothy pink bow in the center. Newton peers over his shoulder as he sets it down on his desk and unwraps it, revealing a white cardboard box. On the top is written, “For your cold feet. XOXO, your Secret Admirer”.

Inside the box is a pair of socks, dark blue, with a pattern of white stars running up and down. They’re thick and warm-looking, made of fluffy material that feels surprisingly sturdy. Hermann feels something lodge in his throat.

“Well,” he mumbles, “this is just getting ridiculous.”

“Still think this is a joke?” asks Newton. Hermann clenches his jaw and reminds himself of the truth, of what he knows, of what will always be: this isn’t meant to romance him. This is someone having a laugh at the pathetic little mathematician who nobody remembers. He shouldn’t find this sweet.

“Hmmph,” Hermann says. “At least it’s a useful joke this time. My feet are _very_ cold.”

Newt facepalms. “Jesus Christ,” he groans, “you’re seriously gonna keep this up? Why can’t you just believe someone actually likes you?”

Hermann turns on him, eyes blazing. “Because no one does, Newton,” he snaps, even though his heart is aching. “And it would do me no good to believe otherwise.”

Without another word Hermann sets the socks down on his desk, climbs back up the ladder, and returns to work.

The final straw comes at the end of the day, when Hermann climbs down once more to find an envelope on his desk. This isn’t out of place, per say, Hermann gets lots of paper mail delivered to his workspace. He turns it over to see a return address on the back, but there’s only a little heart drawn in blue marker, and the words, “To Dr. Gottlieb”.

Hermann really isn’t in the mood for this. The joke stung a little, at first, but then there were the socks, thoughtful and lovely, and now a bloody letter? Whoever is doing this must have a cruelty streak a mile wide. He lets out a heavy sigh and opens the envelope, pulling out the letter inside. It smells oddly familiar; like some sort of cologne he knows he’s smelled before. After unfolding it, he reads:

_Dear Dr. Gottlieb. I used your professional title because I know you like that, and I really want this to make you happy. You do so much for the PPDC; you’ve saved millions of lives and given countless years of work for the war, but it never seems like you get enough credit. I think people underestimate you too much. That, and they don’t treat you right at all. You’re smart and funny, and board meetings are always a million times better when you’re there. I like you. I like you a lot. I like your smile, the real one, the one that people never see. I like the way you use your cane like a fifth limb; it’s a better Drift than any Jaeger pilot I’ve seen. But most of all, I like your brain. In fact, I think it’s the best brain in the goddamn world, because it’s a brain that makes you, you. Anyway, I know for a fact you don’t feel the same way, but I thought I would make your Valentines Day special. You deserve it. Love, your Secret Admirer._

Without warning, Hermann feels tears welling up in his eyes. His chest is tighter than a steel lung, and his glasses are beginning to fog up from the moisture. Who would do this? Who would write a letter, filled with the kindest words Hermann has ever been given, and send it just to be a complete and utter arse?

He brings it up to his eyes, just to look for any clues, and unconciously sniffs it again. That damned cologne. It smells like rainfall, and pine forests, and...

Newton.

This is the cologne Newton wore when they first met.

Hermann crumples the letter in his fist, almost shaking from rage. As calmly as he can muster, he turns and says aloud, “Did you think this was supposed to be funny?”

Newton looks up from the sample he’s dissecting and blinks, confused. “Sorry?”

“The flowers. The socks. The bloody fucking letter. Did you get a good laugh, Newton?”

Newton has the good graces to look panicked. “Wait,” he says, dropping his tools and rushing over, “Hermann, I can explain--”

“Oh yes,” Hermann growls, shame rising in his chest as hot tears threaten to spill from his eyes. “I would _love_ to hear you try and worm your way out of this one. How long have you been planning this? A week? A month? Since last Valentines Day? I’ll be honest, Newton, I expected this from one of the pilots, but never from you. I truly did think you were better than this.”

“Hermann,” Newton tries again, “if you would just listen--”

“And of course, because it was you, because you’re so bloody brilliant, you had me believing for a moment that someone might actually like me! That I hadn’t been forgotten, that I was worth remembering, that I was worth it after all! But you proved me wrong, Newton. Are you happy? You. Proved. Me. Wrong.”

Hermann balls the letter up and throws it at Newton with all his might. It bounces off his head, dropping to the floor, but Newton doesn’t even appear to notice. “Hermann,” Newton exclaims, “it wasn’t a joke! I wasn’t trying to trick you! I was just trying to fix what everyone in this stupid ‘Dome fucked up!”

Heat rises to Hermann’s cheeks. “So-- you did this because you felt sorry for me?!”

Newton slams his foot down and screams, “You have the emotional understanding of a potted fucking plant! Hermann, I didn’t do this because I pitied you, I did it because I’m fucking in love with you!”

Everything in Hermann’s brain grinds to a halt.

He can’t breathe. He feels like he’s going to collapse. Newton is... in love with him?  
“What?” he chokes out. Newton lets out a frustrated noise.

“Oh, goddamnit! I’m sorry, I had it all planned totally different-- I was gonna take you out to a nice dinner, and I had a whole speech, but--” He sighs. “Hermann, you deserve an amazing Valentines Day, with tons of cards and flowers and everything! And the fact that it hasn’t been like that every single year is a fucking shame. You deserve to feel as amazing as you actually are, and I know since it’s from me it’s kinda ruined, but.. I just wanted you to be happy! So can you please, please believe that this isn’t a joke?”

Hermann’s mouth is hanging open like a fish. His cane is barely in his grip. His brain is blasting the words, “NEWTON LOVES YOU, NEWTON LOVES YOU” on an endless loop in neon blue. Newton loves him. Newton _loves_ him. Hermann is worth loving.

Hermann is an idiot.

Before he can second guess himself, he’s striding forward and grabbing Newton by the tie and pulling him into a kiss. It’s clumsy. It’s messy. It’s nothing like Hermann imagined.

_It’s so much fucking better._

Hermann pulls away to catch his breath, leaving Newton gaping in front of him. Faintly, he says, “Oh. I guess you really did like it after all.”

Hermann’s eyes are shining. “If I weren’t already stupidly in love with you,” he replies, “I certainly would be now. You did all this for me?”

Newton appears to remember himself and nods. “Of course. I told you, I wanted you to feel as special as you actually are. You deserve the fucking world, Hermann. I just wish I could give you that.”

He leans in to kiss him again, this time much softer and more coordinated. Newton sighs and wraps his arms around Hermann’s waist. Every cell in his body sings at the contact. His heart feels so warm and full it might burst out of his chest.

“Thank you,” Hermann says tenderly, bringing up a hand to cup Newton’s cheek. He kisses him a third time. “You’ve given me a hundred worlds over.”

Newton smiles that wonderful, bright smile. “Happy Valentines Day, Hermann. You deserve it.”


End file.
